


Sic Transit Gloria

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM elements, Cigarettes, Consensual, F/F, One Shot, Season/Series 03, Smut, cigarette burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 21:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14434299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Hurt people hurt people. Isn’t that how it goes? They need this. They both do.





	Sic Transit Gloria

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to depict a plausible scenario regarding FT. This was highly influenced by that campy video of Joan smoking and Will fishing in a boat.

> _You don't recover from a night like this_  
>  _A victim, still lying in bed, completely motionless_  
>  _A hand moves in the dark to a zipper_  
>  _…_  
>  _[S]He is the lamb, she is the slaughter._  
>  _She’s moving way too fast and all [s]he wanted was to hold her._  
>  _Nothing that [s]he tells her is really having an effect._  
>  _[S]he whispers that he loves her—_
> 
> **Sic Transit Gloria** – Brand New

Rough nights with Rita are replaced with Joan. There must always exist an antagonist. Beyond brick walls, Wentworth’s staff are just as trapped.

As a consenting adult, she braces herself for the honey-coated pain. Unlike the venomous verbal assault of Mum, she knows a sticky sweetness will follow. Maybe that’s why Vera agrees to this war dance: Joan bestows her with the warped affection Rita never showed her.

Highbrow art furnishes Joan’s home. Vera Bennett’s curious gaze sweeps across the violin and the old photograph in the dining room. She tries to piece together the puzzle that forms her goddess’ life, but it’s to no avail. Into the belly of the beast, the Deputy Governor follows her Governor. The darkness of Joan’s bedroom matches the frigid shadows that infect the prison halls.

A puddle forms on the floor. At the mess, Joan grimaces. It’s a fleeting gesture.

There, the naked branches scrape against her windows. It’s an empty sound. Nature assaults artifice. Branches scratch the glass. Instead, Vera chooses to listen to curt instruction. She focuses on the blooming fever.

“Dry off, Vera.”

She’s dripping from the rain outside. The Devil hands her a towel. She runs the terry cloth over her damp curls. The authoritarian bun has long since left her. A blouse clings to her petite frame, as if she’s bathed in vinegar. She rubs and she rubs, but the foul stains refuse to budge.

Vera looks into her eyes, but there’s no sign of life. Perhaps they’re the same after all. This is no murder ballad though something between them has died.

Joan allows for her to sit on the edge of the queen-sized, silken bed. It’s a small luxury that she affords Vera. She watches the Governor disappear, only to reappear with a glass of vodka that contains a splash of cranberry juice. A drink to take off the edge. The liquor is for Vera’s convenience: to calm her nerves. She’s malleable as is.

“Thank you,” she says and means it.

Gratefully, Vera accepts this offering. She downs it in a few, hearty gulps. Liquid fire sears her throat. The empty glass rests on the nightstand. Like a queen in a game of chess, Joan moves to the beat of rules and precedents.

This deed transpires in the bedroom. An element of trust is involved. Vera’s blue-grey eyes focus on the curtains blotting out the sun. Who’s she kidding? It’s night-time. This charade of theirs always starts then.

“Know your safe word,” the Governor croaks.

Leather creaks. Finger by finger, she eases into her gloves. They fit impeccably. She sinks into them like an old home.

“Glory,” Vera announces. Devoid of accomplishment, it sounds alien to her.

Vera has given Joan her word. Surely, that must account for something.

“Good girl,” she affords praise in the spur of the moment. “Down.”

Vera complies. Duty and obedience whirl together. Her cheek rests against the cold wooden floor that carries a faint hint of bleach and polish.

“Rise,” Joan commands. 

Always testing, always pushing, it comes to this. No fantasy masks this hardened reality. The gloved ‘v’ of Joan’s hand coasts along Vera’s throat.

“Strip.” She continues, “On your knees.”

Count on the complacent Deputy to get on her knees for Joan. Trembling fingers unfasten her blouse. Then, her trousers. A thrill, like a current of electricity, runs through her. She wants this. Nude and exposed, she awaits further instructions. Obeying orders is second nature for Vera.

With a wicked appetite for destruction, Joan Ferguson makes no attempt to replicate a torture scene. On the contrary, she feeds into dark desires. The creator and the destroyer has her knives out in the proverbial sense.

Silence follows. The serpent retreats to a private portion of her den. From there, she procures a bundle of rope. She fastens a tight, secure knot, securing her underling’s wrists together. This is an exercise of trust though her underling remains in control.

“Consider our frivolities a very potent sedative. In the aftermath, you’ll feel a magnificent calm,” she drawls.

Sly and cunning, Joan admires her handiwork. Omniscient and hovering, she lingers from above. Her hooded gaze sweeps over her kneeling submissive. Vera’s lips twitch; butterflies swarm her belly. She devours the sight of her mentor’s long, shapely legs.

“You’re _my_ deputy.”

 **Translation:** _You belong to me._

God meanders around her black and white limbo. From the nightstand, she procures a zippo and a pack of Lucky Strikes. Vera says nothing. She’s in no place to criticize someone for their vice.

Joan shakes out a cig. Her thumb strikes the wheel. The lighter snaps, **snaps** , _snaps_. Rather menacingly, the zippo dangles before her face. Veering on the cusp of hypnosis, the flame saunters. Vera’s eyes follow the well-lit path. They dance like a sultry lover.

The cigarette dangles from in between her lips. Akin to a dragon, smoke slithers out. Joan savors the first exhale. Her chest heaves. She consumes the nicotine and breathes out a cloud of poison. She is as much of a pollutant as the one that fills this room.

Loyalty prevents an unsavory reaction. Vera wants to gag on the fumes. A normally meek woman swallows the lump in her throat. Her one and only incident with a back occurred during juvenile years. Rita, in her tyranny, caught Vera and forced her to finish the pack.

She closes her eyes which water like sea foam.

“Do you consent?” The Governor asks, her voice low and silken.

A gloved thumb hooks beneath her jawline, propping up her _koschechka’s_ chin.

Vera blinks. Her belly quivers in anticipation.

“Yes, Guv’na.” A pause. “I want you to hurt me.”

Consider it penitence, but she needs it. They both do.

Joan blows a thin jet of smoke into the air. She lingers from behind.

Caught in a secular haze, her thumb sweeps along her décolletage. The glowing red tip lowers like a brand. It leaves a mark on the breast bone: a declaration of property. This is her fire sermon.

As if she’s a bird in a cage, Vera flutters. A shudder rakes through her. The burn hurts – bloody well **aches**.

“I’m sensing some tension,” she rasps into the shell of her ear, cigarette propped between her grinning lips.

“Wait,” Vera starts. “I don’t want to _see_.”

The rope digs into her skin. Doesn’t quite cut off circulation. Embeds a serpentine pattern into her frail wrists. Not yet. It’s a combination of unconventional tastes. Compliant, the Governor heeds her Deputy’s request. From a drawer, she procures a piece of silk to blot out sight.

Vera sees black at last.

“Better?” She asks in a soft tone which betrays her authoritarian front.

A nod.

The wreckage continues. Joan covets her treasure. She looms over Vera. Precious stones accrue in the form of a body. The user manipulates the marionette’s strings. Watch her writhe in a haphazard pirouette. With the tie concealing her vision, she’s used to being blind.

Smoke fills her lungs. It rots her soul. The dying embers start to reach the end of the cig. The glowing, red tip meets her thigh. Sharply, Vera inhales. She twitches.

One’s true matter eventually shows. These are the secrets she’s buried, she’s kept hidden, she’s coveted. A pragmatic woman goes too far. Fascination compels her, desire urges her on. Constant craving encourages the point of no return.

Craning her neck, Joan observes her ruinous mark. She admires just how much Vera can withstand. Red marks litter pretty flesh. A hollow hunger twists her stomach and sends an ache even lower.

_Will I always feel this empty?_

Her nylon stockings pad across the bare, marble floor. She disposes of the butt and leaves no trace behind.

Kneeling, Vera’s wrists remain bound, secured by scratchy rope. Her hands twist behind her back. Her thighs come apart. Blindfolded, Vera tilts her head back. She assumes Joan stands before her like some archaic God.

And she does.

The harshest of touches leads into gentler ones. A gloved hand pulls on her hair. Tension mounts in her scalp. Her head jerks at an uncomfortable angle. A backhanded slap echoes in this empty room. Discomfort melts into pleasure; a soft caress of the jaw serves as a compromise. The fucked-up part of Vera treats this as a form of sick penitence. 

Joan of Arc drains the heart and makes a spade of it. By the throat, she grabs her doe and pulls her into a hungry, biting kiss. Those lips become swollen and bloody. Faint bruises adorn her neck like the imprint of a noose.

Martyred for her fascination, she gives a testing squeeze. There’s a profound sense of detachment. Her nostrils flare.

Her disciple gasps.

She inspects. She scrutinizes. It’s in her wicked nature.

Long, dexterous fingers wander past soft curls until she settles at the space between her legs. Gradually, her thumb works her clit in slow, derisive circles. Vera bites her lip, overwhelmed by the fizzling, bubbly heat.

She’s earned this.

“ _God_ —” Vera moans, shifting her hips in this torturous dance. Due to her position, pain riddles her joints. A profound ache seeps into her muscles. 

Joan smirks.

Call her God; it’ll get the Devil off.

Throbbing between two lives, passion fuels ruinous tastes. With the Governor’s head between her thighs, she laps up the hurt. There, she continues to bite and suck. Pain ebbs away into the steady promise of pleasure. She tears into her. Molds her into something new. Into someone like her. 

With her tongue curling deep inside, her gloved fingers sink into narrowed hips. Crying out, Vera unravels and throbs around her. She dies with _variety_. A brutal climax, sudden and unprecedented, ripples through Joan. Her belly quivers. Warmth leaks from between her thighs. Her legs clamp together. She convulses with a growl, drinking her in like honey. 

“Enough. Take off the blindfold. Don’t make me shout, Joan.”

This time, Vera demands, her voice shrill and insistent.

“You didn’t use your safe word,” the Governor scolds, lifting her greying head to focus on the bow of her swollen, trembling lips.

Despite removing the veil, Joan sounds faintly disappointed. The rope comes undone. Her deputy recognizes the lilt, but she’s too angry to acknowledge the bitter pangs of shame.

“I wanted to prove myself.”

She doesn’t finish.

Sore and aching, Vera curls into herself. Lightly, her fingertips graze her ribcage. She can’t touch the marks littering her toned thighs.

In an inkling of vacant possession, aftercare follows. 

The Governor cradles her Deputy. She pulls her to her chest, an arm around the shoulders. Her derisive palm sweeps along her forehead, pushing back the errant curls that have spilled free and collected along her temples. Sturdy thighs frame Vera’s smaller form. Back to chest, a cage ensnares this bird.

“Why... Why do you need to hurt?”

Her arms feel so warm. The layers of ice astound Vera. Gingerly, she grazes the forearm and the gloves that remain in place. All she can smell is leather and smoke.

“I don’t know,” Joan responds quietly.

But _oh_ , she does know.

Hurt people hurt people. Isn’t that how it goes?

“You’re cruel, Joan,” Vera murmurs, her body a leaden weight.

Cold, cold, cold - does she feel _anything_ at all?

 The weary lioness tenses. Vera Bennett is the agony she knew all along.

Her fingers wander down that taut throat. She senses no nerves, only curiosity and an attempt to understand the thorniest parts of herself. It’s too close, too real.

“You could have denied me,” she counters.

Vera shakes her head. She doesn’t understand.

“Why would I?”

_That’s not what people do when they’re in love._

“I confided in you, because I trusted you,” Joan whispers.

In a morbid recreation of Pietas, the Governor cradles her prodigy. She sinks further into the touch, resting her chin against her upperarm. Slumped on the floor like a pile of used laundry, Vera finds that to be enough.

For now.

**Author's Note:**

> koschechka means ' wild, little kitten. '


End file.
